


Fell from Heaven, now I'm living like a devil

by Bananas45



Category: Batman (Comics), Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Fever Dreams, Gun Kink, Gun Violence, Hero Worship, Implied Relationships, Insecurity, Jason Todd Has Issues, Light Masochism, M/M, Pining, Pseudo-Incest, Sexual Confusion, Tim Drake Needs a Hug, Tim Drake-centric, Unrequited Love, probably AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-22
Updated: 2019-10-22
Packaged: 2020-12-28 13:17:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,489
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21137339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bananas45/pseuds/Bananas45
Summary: “Fuck you, Jason” He snarls, breathless now.“You came here not me” Jason’s eyes skim his face, taking him in before his fingers push ever so softly under the lip of his mask, as though he’s asking permission.Tim’s breath gets caught somewhere in his throat. He tilts his head as Jason pulls the mask off his face and  holds it in his palm, gaze demure for a moment as he rubs the material between his thumb and forefinger.Then he looks up.“You’re a pretty replacement”His voice sounds a little hoarse. Tim has to bite his tongue to stifle whatever is bubbling inside him.





	Fell from Heaven, now I'm living like a devil

**Author's Note:**

> I think this is kind of AU. I can't really keep up with the continuity.
> 
> I didn't mean for this to be anywhere near as long as it was. I just re-read Death of the family and felt obliged to write something where they fight...It's hot.
> 
> It's also kind of up for debate whether Dick and Bruce are actually together in this or if it's just in Tim's head. 
> 
> It's wholly up to the reader!

Gotham from above never fails to be beautiful at night - at least from the air. Tim wonders if it has something to do with the lack of needles, piss and smog that pervades every alley, hell every street but the thin layer of smoke that lies between the ground and the towers gives the place an ethereal glow. 

  


But then again it might have something to do with the reason he’s on the edge of this skyscraper to begin with, cold air whipping his air and making his eyes water just an inch. 

  


Sometimes it’s bizarre to think he’s here, doing this. Not just running through alleys with his neck craned to catch a sight. Police scanner in his ear and shoelace undone as he catches up to danger likes it’s the circus. 

He wonders sometimes if there is a boy out there who’s whole world revolves around the mystique of the mask like Tim’s did. 

  


The R on his heart burns a hole through to his back when he thinks too hard about it - and thinking too hard is a thing Tim does a  _ lot _ . Doing this alone still feels odd but he doesn’t need Bruce at his heels to tell him how to think, how to act; in the shadow of a shadow at this point. Not that Tim cares, he knows better than the rest of them how this game works, maybe better than Bruce does. Acrobatic, beautiful, ruthless and whip-smart. There is a mental list he thinks he should be ticking. 

A siren wails somewhere in the distance. 

  


Tim hears but barely acknowledges, he’s thinking now; He’s a kid, he doesn’t need to think of the future but he stills does. His mind has a tendency to race miles ahead of his present. 

It helps a little, when you’ve considered every outcome of a situation, especially in fights but moments like this, sat daydreaming at 2am when he should be working it’s more of a hinderance. 

Was this his life now? He doesn’t think he  _ was _ thinking when he first offered himself up like some kind of virgin sacrifice and never once during the six months of gruelling training - double anything Grayson ever did - had he ever considered turning back. No, a voice in his head sneers, because you  _ loved _ it.

But for whose sake? Bruces? Who even pulled his punches everytime Tim landed on his back, winded to hell and bruises blooming fresh and instantaneous from the force. 

Tim Drake; The robin who threw his whole life away just to make a billionaire vigilante happy. 

Batman needs a Robin. Said the boy obsessed. 

  


He never considered that  _ he _ might just need Batman to have a Robin. 

  


Gunshots interrupt his thoughts. Shake him back to alertness, every sinew ready for battle. His body got used to this faster than his head did. 

  


(His heart’s been in it for years) 

  


He had a tip, some vague idea of gang violence gone array, of blood being spilled and an even vaguer tip that it might have something to do with Red Hood. 

The man - whose voice had been slurred after Tim punched out his two front teeth - had said he had no idea, not really, it was all hear-say. 

  


It always was with Jason though. 

  


Bruce would want him far, far away from this. He knows that. He has a tendency turns a blind eye to all of Red Hood’s murderous activities whether he wants to admit it to himself or not. 

  


And Tim would have to have a goddamn death wish to face him again. 

  


But he’s obsessive and hell, he got away with spying on Batman for years. He thinks he can out-smart a dead guy. Out-smarting is Tim’s forte. 

Tim would like to call this recon but it’s more personal than that - a call back to times gone by. He likes data and he knows Dick Grayson like the back of his hand. Knows what Bruce loves about him, knows how he moves, how he acts, how  _ Robin _ should be. 

But Jason is enigma. An enigma of rage and pain and a visceral, living breathing embodiment of how this line of work could end. 

  


Tim shudders. 

Two more shots. 

  


He needs to make a move. Maybe not one to  _ stop _ him. Just to see what’s happening. 

  


The building is under construction but almost finished. A glass exterior with little inside. It’ll be a mall, offices, all that. Some Gotham upstart that will be a shithole in under three months. For now it’s just cold concrete, half built stairs and a pretty shell to hide crimes and muffled gunshots. 

  


Robin slides between pillars, feet silent as he moves downwards towards the glow of a construction light. The gunshots are louder but less frequent. All he really hears now is the screaming and it’s  _ intense _ . 

  


Men’s screams have a horrible strangled quality to them. Pulled from beer ripened guts like some kind of exorcism. Tim watched how Batman would pull it from even the most unbreakable tatted brutes as they gave up information in exchange from relief. 

The screams here are a little more hopeless. It makes his toes curl. 

The concrete is exposed where Tim settles. He knows if he moves it’ll knock chunks to the floor below but from here he sees the man on the ground; He’s taken a shot to the shin and is crawling, nose running and muscles that must pull 300 pounds on a good day in the gym now useless as he tries to maneuver his own body weight to the stairs. 

  


Jason hasn’t noticed the guy, He’s too busy emptying a clip into some poor suited mafia leader. It’s a cheap suit, the fake rolex on his twitching wrist, the dollar store brogues. Tim’s gut twists. Small fry. Undeserving of this level of brutality. 

He flinches as Red Hood fires one more shot into the guy’s face. A halo of blood like some paint bubble circles his head, filters through the dust, through the light, catching and mingling with the shadows in some sick dance. 

  


Tim covers his mouth against some sound of despondent righteousness that threatens to give him away. 

  


“Oh hoh, big guy” 

  


His voice really is something special, drawling and soft, teasing and ruthless. He takes from the best but he’s tainted by the worst. It’s filled with justice but tinged with madness. 

It makes Tim’s mouth dry, his heart pound up against his adam’s apple. 

He has to do something. He has a professional duty. 

  


“I missed you”

He cuts an imposing figure. Combat boots crunching through splattered bone, brain and crumbling concrete. The knee pads on the trousers and the straps just beside them - Tim can see the outline of the muscles of his thighs in the dim light as it stretches against the gunmetal on his sides. His breath is even, he’s barely broken a sweat but Tim can still see the ripple of his stomach as he re-loads his gun. His biceps strain against the leather jacket. 

He’s no Batman but he’s close. 

He’s close. 

The Mask hides everything, all emotions, all features. It, maybe, makes this more terrifying. Impossible, almost, to link the creature prowling towards its prey to the boy wonder with a plucky attitude and a death wish. 

  


“C-come on, Sir”

The man has turned onto his front, aware he can’t get away fast enough. He’s double Jason’s size - Tim’s brain hates that it takes this moment to humanize him, strip back the hood and accept the exact reality of this situation - but the man looks childlike, paralyzed with fear and the idea of Jason being this ruthless with him makes Tim’s skin crawl. 

He sits up a little, the ripped wife beater crusty with his own blood, the dragons on his chest and arms are trembling. 

  


In response to the plea he gets a knife thrown expertly through his hand. It takes a moment to register before he howls. 

  


“I have a wife-” He wails.

  


“Kids!” 

  


He gets a shrug in response. 

  


“Well” 

  


The click of a safety. 

  


“Shoulda thought of that before you crossed me, buddy” 

  


Sweat and tears drip of the man’s chin. 

  


Given that Jason will pause for dramatic effect, he’s got about five seconds to act. Not enough time to come up with as many contingency plans as he hopes. 

  


He goes classic instead.

  


“No!” 

  


Tim drops down in front of the man, arms spread. Jaw set and quip ready- he’s trained after all. 

  


There is nothing from the man in front of him. Nothing but the pull of a trigger. No recognition, no ounce of regret or second thought. 

  


The bullet hits him directly on the little R on his chest and throws him back on top of the thug behind him. It doesn’t kill him, he has armour on but it lodges and winds him something fierce. He clutches weakly at his chest and fights for an intake of breath against the ache that spreads through him but finds enough in himself to flip back onto his feet.

  


“Fuck off wannabe or the next one’s in your in head” 

  


He wonders if Jason is bluffing. He doesn’t know him well enough to know for certain but he stands his ground anyway, albeit shakily. 

  


“Back off” He says, stronger than he expects. 

  


“You alone?” 

  


“I said-” 

  


“You  _ are _ . Huh, interesting” 

  


He’s ready for the next shot. He manages to pull both himself and the 200 pound man out the way off it. 

  


“So you-know-who isn’t coming?” 

  


Tim checks behind the pillar he’s got them both leant up against for cover, only to get a face full of rubble and a bullet at his feet. 

  


“Shit…” he breathes. 

  


“Did you pull this stunt without permission?” 

  


Jason’s voice echoes from everywhere. 

  


And Tim can barely breathe for the adrenaline. 

  


The man beside him holds his wrist like a lost toddler. 

  


“Hey big guy” He sing songs. Tim hears the clip drop to the ground, in the dust strewn silence the re-load is louder than his heart-beat. “Bring me baby-bird and maybe I’ll let you see your family again or something” 

  


Tim eyes widened but before he gets a chance to kick out there is a meaty forearm around his throat and his feet are off the ground. 

  


“Sorry kiddo” He gets, hot and wet against his neck. He  _ hates  _ scared crooks. 

Pulled into the light, spots in his vision from the grip on his neck, he stares into the blank mask of the thing he replaced. 

  


“Batman’s gonna be pissed to lose another one so quick.” 

  


“Not if you do the right thing” He gasped. It’s the closest he’s getting to begging, he’d rather die than do that, He thinks. He’s lost a lot of clarity from the blood rush. 

  


“The right thing…” There is a soft laugh behind it. “You’re painfully fucking naive” 

  


_ That’s the fucking point, asshole  _ Tim wants to snarl. Jason’s  _ done _ this job. 

  


His legs kick a little fruitlessly but some fucked part of him wants to know how this ends. For a moment he’s Dick Grayson and Timothy Drake is watching from the sidelines, eyes wide with wonder. But he’s also losing oxygen fast. 

  


“Okay…” Jason murmurs. “Okay” 

  


The shot makes Tim’s ears ring and his mind shut down. It barrels towards him and then across his cheek, scorching and deadly and into the man holding his throat. It spurts blood across his face, hot and sticky. The grip loosens almost instantly but Tim barely feels it, his whole body feels frozen. 

  
  


“Thank me later” 

  
  


He’s moving before his brain is thinking, firing a grappling hook - which is never a good thing. It wraps around his forearm, digging into the leather under it with enough force to break the skin and cause Jason to hiss out a ‘fuck’. Tim slams a foot forward to drag Jason back towards him. 

  


“Oh? You wanna play, usurper?” He barks and the venom behind it takes Tim by surprise.

  


Jason’s free hand grabs the taut rope and hauls Tim toward him with it. His feet manage to catch before he lands on his face but a tug of war with Jason will end badly for him no matter which way he cuts it. 

  


It’s just his luck, he thinks as he uses Jason’s pull to gather enough momentum for a follow through kick that will actually hurt, that he had to be brash enough to try and save that guy and now he has Jason god damn Todd, who hates his  _ guts _ at his throat with no back up, no nothing. 

  


“I didn’t  _ usurp  _ you” He dodges Jason’s punch and watches as Jason’s other hand spins a knife out the buckle on his thigh and cuts close enough to Tim’s throat that his neck has to crain. He crouches low as Jason swings again. He knees up, his right foot landing in Jason’s stomach and the other clipping his chin. 

  


“From what I hear” Jason catches his ankle and throws him to the ground in record time. “You threw yourself at Bruce like a fucking harlot” 

  


He flushes a little at that as he flips to his feet. 

  


“It wasn’t like that” 

  


“How long you wait? Was I still  _ warm _ when you decided to replace me?” 

  


He blocks and blocks but Jason has a careless fervour to his attacks that are near impossible to judge. It’s vicious and it’s  _ deadly  _ and Tim is exhausting fast on the defense. This isn’t punching up crooks in some alleyway. This is personal. 

Jason is riling him up. Hitting the places he thinks are weak - mentally and physically. 

  


He’s not rising to it. 

  


He dodges and pushes back. Sliding between Jason’s open legs and blocking the punch that rounds on him. He punches up just as the blade embeds in the shoulder of the arm that isn’t pushing into Jason’s chin full force. 

  


It knocks the mask clean of Jason’s face, even if it costs him blood. 

  


Tim blinks, even through the pain. Shock coursing through him, slowing time. 

  


His hair is mused, a strand hung, damp with sweat over his forehead and he’s surprisingly tan for a dead man. Suddenly bright blue eyes are boring into his. Jaw clenched and teeth grinding. His chin is red, purpling already from Tim’s punch and his lip his split clean open. 

  


“Like what you see, baby-bird?” 

  


He has these wild eyes but the colour is something else. Somewhere between green and bright blue, it depends on the light, Tim guesses - christ what is he  _ doing _ . He already has one completely unattianable crush on his fucking  _ boss/legal guardian/father figure _ \- They are lighter than his. Not as stunning as Dick’s and not quite as piercing as Bruce’s. 

  


“Oh shit, you do” Jason blinks, head tilting just a little, bemused. 

  


He pulls the blade out and backhands him. Tim goes with the force, thinks maybe he deserves it after being so careless. 

  


“Shit kid” Jason touches his lip. “You’re especially fucked, even for Bruce’s taste” 

  


“Says the murderer” Tim snaps, trying in vain to sit up before grabbing his shoulder. 

  


“Tou-fucking-che” 

  


Jason goes for a kick with enough force to effectively backwards curb stomp him on the concrete edge he’s balanced against but Tim grabs his foot and twists, prays with enough force to twist his ankle. 

  


If Jason plays dirty so can he. 

  


“Bitch-” 

  


He lands hard and Tim is on him in seconds. He’s surprisingly ruthless, hell, maybe Jason is rubbing off but with the advantage of gravity his punches are harder to block. Jason’s nose curls from exertion as he grabs fists and covers his face, trying to push Tim off. A few land, Tim feels the skin break under his knuckles but he catches a punch and twists Tim’s wrist round to an angle it shouldn’t twist to, uses the pain and Tim’s yelp of surprise to spin him onto his front, hauling his arm up to his shoulder blades. His face bounces hard of the blood stained concrete and just like that, it's over. Jason pins him hard, body heavy and muscled over him. 

  


“Word of advice, kid” He whispers into Tim’s ear. “Leave me the fuck alone. I don’t appreciate being followed by a fucking fan-boy” He punctuates by moving the arm further up, Tim’s jaw drops in a silent scream as he shakes. “Get in my fucking way again, replacement, and I’ll be less fucking leniant” Jason’s voice is viscous in his ear and it makes a shiver, hot and deadly and wholly misplaced, shoot down his spine. 

“Run home, birdie. Bruce’ll give you a pat on the back when he sees that stab wound. Try not to fucking cream your pants when he touches you-” Tim struggles then, pain ebbing away as embarrasment flushes through him. “Uh,uh” Jason pulls a moan - to Tim’s horror and Jason’s surprise - out his throat as he hold Tim’s shaking arm at breaking point. 

  


Silence strains a few seconds between them, then Jason’s grip loosens enough to lessen the damage if not the pain. 

  


“Tim” It’s surprisingly soft against his ear, he squeezes his eyes shut in disgust at how he response. “Don’t do this to yourself. You dumb enough to think he  _ loves _ you? Because he doesn’t…and don’t let yourself believe he does. You’re not his favourite, neither was I and you’re gonna  _ die _ in that fuckers shadow.” 

  


Just like that the building is empty, the pressure on his arm is gone and Tim lies still as feeling comes back to him, surrounded by blood, bodies and dust and feeling, for a moment, painfully hopeless. 

  
  
  


He returns to the mansion, sore and shocked but more importantly embarrassed. Bruce is nowhere to be found and Alfred is rightly asleep.

  


He strips in the cave, clutching his shoulder and shuddering in the echoey cold. It’s a horrible place without Bruce, heavy with synthetic light and freezing with natural air always made worse by cooling sweat and open wounds. He takes one last look at the glowing computer screens and heads upstairs in nothing but his boxers. It’s not as though anyone but him will check the security feed anyway. 

  


The elevator ride crawls by and leaning against the cold metal makes his back erupt in goosebumps. 

  


He falls asleep with dried blood on his cheek, not even his own, too exhausted to shower it off, and dreams of hands on his neck and for the first time in years, someone other than Bruce.

  
  
  


He wakes beyond sore. The usual ache of muscles from fights and the odd bruise is something Tim can say he sort of enjoys but this is something worse, it tinged with a concoction of emotion; fear, shame, embarrassment and something completely unnamable that  _ might _ \- god forbid - be desire. Sunlight drips in through the heavy drapes and Tim knows it can only have been maybe three hours since he came back. His eyes flutter shut in protest. He should,  _ needs _ to get up and at least vaguely explain to Bruce why he looks like he does. Considering he shouldn’t, given than it was  _ meant _ to be a slow night. He stretches and regrets it before tilting his head to the side. In some horrible idealised world he’d turn over to see Bruce there, broad chest rising and falling in the pale morning light. He shakes the thought off. 

  


Or Jason, maybe. Somehow it seems more far fetched. 

The blood on his cheek has crusted over but the sound of the gun and initial spray play across his senses like a ghost. 

  


But he didn’t start this over a  _ crush _ . It’s just a minor factor. No matter what Jason Todd might whisper into his ear. He gets up, pulls a shirt on weakly but doesn’t bother doing it up and thinks for a moment about pulling the sheets back on his bed to make Alfred’s life a little easier but it’s all blood stained anyway. 

  


He wanders into the kitchen, ignores his own slight limp because he feels dumb. Dumb for getting hurt, dumb for involving himself, dumb for letting Jason fucking Todd under his skin- 

  


“Yeesh” 

  


He jumps a little. Way to caught up in thinking about his - what? - _dead_ _adoptive_ brother to notice the one sat literally half a metre away from him. 

  


And he’s meant to be the smart one. 

  


#1 Dick Grayson smiles over a cup of coffee. His clothes ruffled and his face soft with sleep. He’s beautiful, other-wordly and untouchable even now that they’re meant to be brothers. Then again, he’s never once in Tim’s memory not looked like perfection - though, things get blurry when they’re rose tinted. His silky black hair is pushed out his face and his muscles ripple as he leans down to stretch over the bunker. He bounces back up and pours tim a cup, smile radiant. 

  


“Tough night?” He says, sympathetic, eyes kind. So different then the fever he saw in his brothers.  _ Their _ brother’s. 

  


“Sort off” Tim murmurs and slides onto a kitchen stool. He thinks of gritted teeth, wild eyes and rough muscle and drinks a sip of coffee to just forget about it. 

  


“Huh” Grayson says, tilts his head softly. “Wanna talk about it?” 

  


“What are you doing over?” He asks instead, clearing his throat softly. 

  


Dick blinks and then worries his lip ever so softly. 

  


“Y’know just business” He says evasively. Then adds sheepishly. “I needed to see Bruce about some things” 

  


“Oh” Tim murmurs. “I-I’m surprised you stayed the night” 

  


_ ‘You’re not his favourite, neither was I’ _

  


He’s sore and now he’s pissed. He loves Grayson so much but sometimes it all gets blurred and messy in his head - because he’s jealous too, as jealous as Jason. He’s jealous of whatever he has going with Bruce. The intensity of it. Tim use to admire it, use to crave it. Followed them religiously to watch as Batman smeared blood off the boy wonders cheek and asked him if he was okay with a hand on his shoulder big enough to cover from his collar to his shoulder blade. 

  


But now some childish part just wishes Grayson would accept it for what it is. 

  


“So am I” Dick sounds distant for a moment before he swallows. His eyes flutter, as though what he’s remembering makes him fucking  _ swoon _ . Tim can only imagine, although it makes him flush a little. He’s thought about them a lot, it’s hard not to, when he’s not imagining himself there instead. 

  


Grayson’s gymnasts elegance and Bruce’s marble like muscle. Street light or moon light, alleyway or four poster bed, four piece suit or skin tight kevlar. 

  


“You still with me?” Dick waves a hand across his face. 

  


He nods. He’s been training, the tips of his fingers are wrapped, it makes them look more elegant, softer. Every nuance accentuated by the tape. 

  


His fingers had been taped that night for the performance - or had they been? Tim’s memory and his fantasies have mixed into one over the years. 

  


“Shit” Dick murmurs and while Tim had been salivating over his pseudo-brother. The other had - with expert detectives gaze - noticed the obvious stab wound bleeding through his shirt. 

  


“Holy shit, Tim. Were you stabbed?” He stands in one fluid motion and jumps the counter one handed, landing right at Tim’s side to prod gently. “Did you clean it?” 

  


“Yeah I-” 

  
Dick’s hands in his hair. He’d really appreciate it under  _ any _ other circumstances except with words like ‘die in his shadow’ ringing in his ears. 

  


“You’re hot-” 

  


“It’s fine I dealt with it-” 

  


“Who was it? Have you told Bruce? -” 

  


“No I-” 

  


“I’ll call-” 

  


“Can you just back the fuck off?” He snaps, knocking the hands away, louder than he means and Dick steps back, face hardening. 

  


Silence spreads between them. Tim counts the beats of his heart as Dick watches him.

  


“Okay” he says simply. His eyes close briefly and Tim watches that perfect jaw set, that smooth forehead crease. “You should take a break” 

  


“I don’t  _ need _ a break” Tim insits, standing even if it just accentuates the height difference, the age difference, the experience difference, there is years between them and a body too, beaten and bloody and never forgotten. 

  


It snaps something fragile in him. 

  


“Look, I don’t need you or Bruce treating me like  _ fucking  _ china because of what happened-” 

  


“Happened to what?” Dick cuts him off, bites the words out surprisingly ferociously. “Happened to who? You think that doesn’t plague everything he does with you? How do you think it  _ couldn’t _ ? Do you have any idea how much that boy  _ meant _ to him?” 

  


And now it’s Dick’s turn to look jealous even if he hides it quickly, palm covering his face as he turns a little away. 

  


Dick Grayson looks ashamed. 

  


Tim feels frozen all of a sudden, as though his throat has closed, as though he can barely force words out. He feels like an idiot. 

  


“I didn’t mean it like that” He mumbles and he means it. 

  


“Off course you didn’t” Dick says graciously, letting it go as he rubs his head. . 

  
  


The whole thing is fucked. 

  
  


Grayson still tells Bruce, off course. Whispers it over lunch or brunch or morning sex or something. 

  


And here they are. 

  


“I dealt with it fine. I came back around four, I cleaned it out, I covered it. I didn’t think it was necessary to tell you.” 

  


Bruce nods. 

  


“You should have though. It was dangerous.” Dick interrupts, leant against a console, brow set and arms folded. 

  


Bruce lifts a hand and Dick seems to stop breathing even if he bristles, either at the situation or the trained response to heel to Bruce’s commands. Tim feels taut like a bow, unsure still if he’s in trouble. If this was brave or rebellious. 

  


“You did good. A little reckless” The softest smile, gentle and tight - hell barely a smile at all - and yet Tim fucking  _ melts _ . “Good job, Tim” 

  
  
  
  


The night is oddly warm, oddly still. The world tilts as he jumps roof to roof but it feels a little like he’s not going anywhere. 

  


Frankly, he doesn’t remember how he got here. Or exactly  _ where _ here is. 

  


“I thought I made it pretty clear that I didn’t wanna see you around” 

  


“Jason” He murmurs, unable to stop himself. He’s riding the high of Bruce’s praise, the pain of last night. The adrenaline from his fight with Dick. He feels hyper-sensitive, as though the skin tight suit is a second skin, an exposed nerve. 

  


He can feel Jason move towards him, as though the air itself parts for him. His eyes are narrowed but his movements seem slow, calculated. WIthout the mask he looks young, the marks of their fight seems to have healed. How that’s possible Tim isn’t sure but he doesn’t care. Jason’s gaze seems to fix him to the concrete. The yellow haze of misty rain, the puff of Jason’s breath in the night air, the cold-reddened tip of his nose, the details are hypnotic. He doesn’t think he’s ever seen him this close. Ever. 

  


Not even when he chased  _ this _ boy wonder across the city. Harder to keep up, harder to avoid and capture. Too wild, too free, too  _ much _ . 

  


He can’t block the blow that hits his stomach. Not that he’s slow or that he doesn’t see Jason broadcast it. It’s like he  _ can’t _ and every blow that he takes explodes into a paint splatter of sensation, hot and cold, comforting and agonising. 

He’s sick. 

  


Another hits the side of cheek, pain and pleasure in equal measure erupting across his vision, painting the scene his eyes barely catch in dots and techni-colour as he stumbles. Jason grabs his suit, bunching the material. Tim’s hands go to his forearm, trying in vain to pry the grip even as he’s hauled to his tip-toes. 

  


The touch is electric and Jason tenses. Tim, distracted by the  minutiae  of his facial features, the harsh cut of his cheekbones, the crease between his eyebrows, the arch of his cupids bow, allows himself to go ragdoll in the grip. 

  


Jason’s hand snakes slowly up to his neck and suddenly he’s lifted off the ground, suddenly his vision blurs and his body erupts with a buzz, a static in his brain as warning signs blossom across his nervous system. He chokes, nostrils flaring. 

  


“J-” 

  


Jason quirks an eyebrow and leans in closer, Tim feels their noses brush, until the distance between them sinks into nothingness. They could be one in the same for how close they are. Jason breathes easy, steady breaths against his lips as some kind of mockery. 

  


Tim’s dry lips crack open as his throat begins to ache. 

  


What does he want? He  _ wants _ the thing he thought he’d never have, Jason was  _ gone _ regardless of how his antics had enthralled him in his youth. Dead usually means dead. He never got to revel in the beauty of being in the presence of his hero like he did with Dick, like he still does with Bruce. He wants to tell Jason just exactly what he meant to him. 

  


He wants - 

  


Jason kisses him. Hard and overwhelming and it’s  _ everything  _ Tim’s needed without ever knowing it. It’s filled with understanding, with a kinship he didn’t know he  _ had _ . Jason knows, Jason gets it and he’ll indulge it. 

  


It’s at that point he realises, hazily, none of this is real. 

  


“Tim” he growls, soft against his lips. Moves down to his neck. Grip never loosening. Tim’s shuddering now, uncontrolled and desperate. For more or for breath he’s unsure. The world slips as does his grip on the rooftop, his toes grip weakly at the ledge he barely realised he’d been pushed to. 

  


Jason’s grip on his neck is the only thing to stop his fall and suddenly he’s filled with clarity, with pure terror. 

  


Those eyes are so cold. The colour frozen over like a lake in the winter. Jason seems to have found clarity too. 

  


Realisation dawns as the grip on his neck loosens. 

  


“Jason-” He tries, desperate. 

  


Jason disappears with the rush of air in his ears, with the flicker of lit floors as they pass at terrifying speeds until he hits the ground with a jolt and - 

  
  
  


He gulps in breath, hands shaking and surroundings coming back to him slowly. 

  


Cold. 

  


He’s freezing. Echoey squeaks and rock formations blur into focus as he squints against the overhead glare. 

  


He hears murmurs and as he sits up. It’s surreal for a moment. A blast for from a past Tim only ever imagined. 

  


Grayson is leant against the console, grip tight as he talks up to Bruce, who’s looking down with stern eyes at whatever Dick is gesticulating about. Bruce moves one large hand to cup his neck, saying something Tim can’t quite understand from the distance. Dick’s jaw tightens but he seems to relax and his head drops to Bruce’s chest with a sigh. 

  


It’s perfectly fatherly, it’s perfectly innocent but it  _ isn’t _ . Tim knows, he’s watched them long enough that he just  _ knows.  _

  


It breaks his fevered heart even if his head came to terms with it years ago. 

  


Dick glances over and pulls away with a cough that clears his throat as though to pretend it never happened, that it’s  _ not  _ happening. Bruce’s hand drops a little reluctantly. Tim watches it fall to his side, curl into a fist then loosen, as though he’s desperate to touch. 

  


They look over each other for a moment before the spell is broken. Grayson smiles carelessly and crosses one leg over the other.

  


“You passed out” He informs. Keeps the ‘I told you so’ out his voice even if he must be thinking about it. 

  


From which point? He struggles further up right. He has a bandaged across it now and in the reflective surface of the medical dish beside him he says just how black his eye is. He wonders what they’ll think of all the blood - the stuff that isn't his. If he were Bruce he’d run a sample, see who it, see who Tim was with and then lose his  _ shit _ . But whose he kidding? It’s probably been done already. 

  


“It was just a fever from the infection” Dick shrugs. “You’ll be fine, lil bro but you didn’t clean that wound” 

  


He winks. Tim smiles, a little forcefully. His dream clings to him like a layer of sweat he can’t shake. He can’t shake that  _ feeling _ regardless of how fake or  fanciful - that odd and trance like understand between him and Jason he’d imagined . As fanciful as thinking Bruce could want him like he wants the  _ actual _ boy wonder. 

  


He glances at Bruce but gets nothing, just a mild stare maybe halfway towards a glare. 

  


Jesus christ he’s being a child about this. A part of him whispers that he  _ is _ a child but from the second he decided to join all this madness, become what he’s always looked up to, he forfeited that claim. 

  


Maybe he just didn’t expect their closeness to be so visceral and  pervasive considering Dick was apparently so far removed. No, that’s a lie, he knew far better than most the bond Dick Grayson and Bruce Wayne shared. He just underestimated how affected  _ he’d _ be by it. 

  


“Don’t go out tonight” Bruce finally says, finally acknowledges him and moves forward. 

  


He doesn’t know why he feels so indignated by it. He shouldn’t. It makes perfect sense and it’s because Bruce  _ cares _ . That shouldn’t make him feel so god damn stifled or itchy but it does. 

  


Because you wanted to see  _ Jason _ . 

  


“Tim” He says, it’s not harsh but it’s getting close and then suddenly, softer. “Please” 

  


If he weren’t so focused on Bruce he’d be interested in the way Dick flinches. 

  


“A night off never killed anyone” He says, aimble and soft. Altogether very boy wonderish. 

  


“I can do that” He agrees. 

  
  


So turns out he  _ can’t.  _

  
  


“Woah-hoh” Jason says, stalks around him, dual wielding at his side like it’s some intrinsic extension of his person. “You’re looking kinda peaky, R” 

  


Because he’s still snuck out in some really, painfully unthought out act of defiance. No, not defiance, just curiosity and a 106 degree forehead mixing into a melting pot of bad decision making. 

  


At least he caught Jason unaware. Snuck in through an open window and made him throw beer across his bare chest as he leapt to his feet in record time. 

  


Even if he now has two guns trained on him. 

  


Tim has always had a well repressed self destructive streak. He thinks him and Bruce are similar that way. 

  


It’s oddly intoxicating.

But it makes him sick, in a way, because he’d imagined Jason when he was younger, when Jason was too. When Jason wasn’t vengeful and mad. Young Tim Drake - as intelligent as he was - had not entertained  _ this _ scenario in any one of his well thought out fantasy of the two of them back in voyeur days. 

  


This; being held at gunpoint in a safehouse that took a good half an hour to track with the catalyst for his turn cape crusading holding the trigger. 

  


“Don’t tell me you didn’t wash that cut, cos the knife was kind of rusty” 

  


He’s joking. Ha Ha. Tim swallows and blinks, even if for a moment his eyes refuse to open. 

  


He’s going to fucking die. 

  


“Gotta hand it to you, finding me two nights in a row is a pretty  _ mean _ feet. You’re a pretty smart bird” He clicks the mask off and drops it at his feet. 

  


Thinking that in anyway means Tim is safe is a dumb thing to presume. He catches Tim’s eye and holds him there. 

  


“But I also told you what would happen if you came after me considering I’ve been damn kind enough to leave  _ you _ the fuck alone. So maybe you have a death wish” Jason shrugs. “Or maybe you’re just a little fucked in the skull?” 

  


“Maybe I like you” Tim quips but he’s regretting this. Regretting coming, regretting trusting his fucked up sense of nostalgia and a  _ fever dream _ as some kind of third eye insight into Jason’s psyche. He’s trembling, he realises dimly. 

  


_ Try walking in my footsteps see how far you get before you fall headfirst into my fucking grave. _

  


“Maybe” Jason steps closer. 

  


The light is sickly yellow and dim, paints them both in their harshest shadows, it makes Jason’s half smirk look awfully cruel. 

  


“Oh birdie” Jason says, the light must have caught the despair in his eyes. “You do look rough. What’s getting to you? The late nights? How none of it ever changes? Or -” 

  


Jason taps the pistol against the side of his head and pouts in a mockery of thinking it through. 

  


“The kind of sinking stone realisation that Bruce is  _ madly _ in love with the only one of us who, uh, actually  _ chose _ to fuck off” 

  


Tim flinches. Feeling suddenly exposed, suddenly child-like. Big Bro Jason can be  _ so  _ cruel. 

  


He should tell, really. 

  


“I understand -” He tries and to his own credit his voice still sounds detached. 

  


“Yeah, yeah” Jason talks over him. “Understanding and being okay with it are two completely different things. I know you aren’t dumb. I know you think you’re above this, above the whole pettiness of  _ family _ drama -” 

  


Tim shakes his head, if only to clear it. 

  


“But you aren’t, are you?” 

  


They’re close enough to feel each others breath now. 

  


“Fuck you, Jason” He snarls, breathless. 

  


“You came here not me” Jason’s eyes skim his face, taking him in before his fingers push ever so softly under the lip of his mask, as though he’s asking permission. 

  


Tim’s breath gets caught somewhere in his throat. He tilts his head as Jason pulls the mask off his face and holds it in his palm, gaze demure for a moment as he rubs the material between his thumb and forefinger. 

  


Then he looks up. 

  


“You’re a pretty replacement” 

  


His voice sounds a little hoarse. Tim has to bite his tongue to stifle whatever is bubbling inside him. 

  


“So” Jason begins. “You’re lost, you’re lonely, you’re angry and you’re hurt-” His hand skims the unsown cut on his uniform from last night. “I think you’re a little confused too. I think being third in line to the throne gets under your skin more than you  _ ever _ thought it would -” 

  


“No-” Tim chokes, defiant. Jason steps forward and suddenly the gun is under his chin. 

  


“No, I think I’m right. I think you came here thinking I’d sympathise. I think you came here thinking I  _ get  _ it. Just because I whispered some helpful hints into your ear after I  _ fucked _ you up last night doesn’t make us friends. I  _ get _ your little problem I really do. I’ve  _ been _ there but you’re dumber than you make out to be if you think I’m gonna help you anyway” 

  


Tim’s breath is shuddery now and his eyes struggle to stay open. Jason’s voice is heavy in his ear, his weight intense, the ice cold metal against his chin pulsing with his heartbeat. 

  


“You don’t know me” Jason growls. “So I’m gonna ask again. What do you want?” 

  


He knows what he wants. He’s known since he went for his ‘recon’ and he’d be kidding himself if he hasn’t been fighting off this attraction like some kind of deadly infection. 

  


But he can’t ignore it, not now that his shoulder aches and his face is bruised. Not now that Jason is here and asking. His other option is going home, knowing Grayson is there. 

  


An odd and unquantifiable amount of despair bubbles up inside him. 

  


He lurches up, arms wrapping around Jason’s neck as he pulls his face down a little. The gun gets crushed up hard into the soft skin above his neck as he breathes against Jason’s lips, pausing for just a moment. 

  


“Fuck” Jason says, soft and surprised. “ _ Fuck _ . Fuck it” 

  


He drops the gun hand and wraps it around Tim’s waist instead, hauling him closer as their lips crushed together. Tim lets out a noise, too close to a sob to be anything other than shameful and Jason chuckles against his lips. 

  


“You’re something else” He whispers, soft and deadly against TIm’s neck as he bites down against the lycra and hot skin. 

  


Tim digs his hands into his hair, tugging at the force of the bite even as it drags a moan from his throat. 

  


“Do they know?” Jason growls and grabs Tim by the hair, hauling him across the barren studio apartment. Tim cries out in a mixture of pain and arousal even as he lets Jason throw him against the headboard of a shitty bed. “Know you’re here. Know that you want this?” 

  


Tim shakes his head wildly. 

  
“Don’t tell them-” He sounds shrill. It’s freeing in a sense. 

  


Jason punches him in the gut, hard enough to make him choke.

  


“Or what?” He bites. “Huh?” 

  


He hauls Tim’s head back till he’s bent back, exposed even in uniform. 

  


“You think you have any right to demand anything you  _ slut”  _ He kicks Tim off the bed and leans back, stripping off his own shirt and undoing his belt before leaning back, arms above his head. 

  


Jason has chips in this game too, Tim realises dimly. Taking the thing Bruce used to get over him and claiming it for himself must feel good and Tim, well Tim’s never been one to not give anyone of their fucked family what they  _ want _ . That’s why he’s here. 

  


Ever the loyal soldier. Regardless of sacrifice. Regardless of side. 

  


It’s the same as fighting, just stripped of pretense and moral ambiguity. Tim grabs Jason’s arms as they go to his neck and he’s pushed down into the mattress. He strains up but it doesn’t do much and suddenly the gun is pressed back against his cheek. 

  


He stills. 

  


Jason pins his arms with his knees and leans his weight forward. 

  


“Do you like danger, Robin?” Jason mutters. Tim’s full body shudder answers for him. 

  


He’s addicted. 

  


He wants the pain if only to stop his mind reeling. Too smart Timmy, always overthinking things, always four steps ahead and never looking back. 

  


Maybe he wants for a moment, just to think of nothing. 

  


The nothingness that overtook him when Jason fired that shot right against his face.

  


He can’t allow himself to be reckless, his brain is far too rigid for that. So what? He’s riled up Jason Todd to the point of violence just to get  _ his _ kicks? 

  


It’s the perfect plan. 

  


His breath is frantic now. 

  


“You’re fucked up, Tim and you’re terrified if he finds out he’ll drop you like the fucking 120 pound waste of space you are” Jason gets him in the stomach - not that Tim’s defending himself - and shoves the gun into his mouth as it gasps open from the shock. “So what? You play the stoic? You act like you’re some cool and aloof genius?” 

  


The metal slices his lip and clunks angrily off his tooth but Jason holds the back of the head with his free hand as he shoves it deeper. 

  


He chokes as the muzzle hits his soft palate. Saliva gathers fast at the back of his throat and he’s drooling down the barrel before he can swallow. 

  


Jason slaps him. Hard enough to draw a gargled gasp from him. 

  


“Jason Todd fucked up. Dick Grayson left. Oh jee-fucking golly just everyone just lets poor Batman down” Jason sing-songs, and shoves the barrel so hard down his throat Tim can feel the tip of his thumb around the trigger. “But not you, right? Is that it?!” He roars. 

  


Tim tries in vain to shake his head as he gags hard, stomach tense and mind buzzing as he hauls in breath through his nose. 

  


Jason punches him in earnest now and his tooth feels like it shatters against the force of the knuckles and gunmetal sandwich. 

  


He groans and chokes on his own drool. His eyes are watering, it’s dripping down his face involuntarily but god, he  _ likes _ it. His stomach twists and his toes curl. It quickly becomes too much, soon his body is desperate for air and Jason’s punches become terrifying with his arms trap. He bucks hard, only just managing to get Jason to dislodge the gun that’s cutting into the back of his throat now. His heartbeats about as fast as his namesake now and fear begins to claw his vision like some rogues gallery toxin. 

  


“You think you get off on pain, Tim?” He snarls and Tim’s eyes widen at the tone; angry and  _ hurt _ . “You don’t know what pain is” 

  


He drops his mouth to Tim’s sweat soaked hair. 

  


“That smart lil head of yours doesn’t know the fucking half of it” 

  


He tips his head up and meets Jason’s eyes. Sweat soaked and sobbing and altogether not the Timothy Drake he presents to the world, he feels like a child again, like a kid in way over his head. 

  


Jason knows. Jason’s - 

  


And then it clicks, even delirious. Jason wants him scared. Wants him to understand. 

The pain and the fear. Jason’s punches aren’t pulled but they aren’t  _ deadly _ . He knows the gun isn’t loaded. 

  


Had Jason  _ known _ he was going to survive all those years ago. 

  


Or was he hopeless and terrified, defiant to the last only because it was all he knew. 

  


Did he pray and beg for Bruce to come. Hopeful to the last tick of the timer. 

  


Suddenly his tears aren’t a gag reflex. Suddenly the weight of what happened to the man above him, to what  _ could _ happen to him, hits him full force. 

  


Bruce’s reluctance to take him on, Dick’s kind words but wary gaze, Jason’s anger. 

  


He gets his bruised hand out from under Jason’s knee. 

  


Jason’s trying to  _ warn  _ him. 

  


Suddenly he’s sobbing and he can’t help it. He’s too far in to be warned, this is his life now and maybe Jason doesn’t know that it’s been his life since the youngest flying Grayson smiled at him at those years ago. Since the bat swooped down and saved that traumatized kid and  _ made _ something of him and inspired, lighted, something indelible in Tim. 

  


But god it’s not like  _ he _ understands anything but the bare bones facts about Todd. 

  


His hand, trembling and clammy under the glove, touches Jason’s cheek. 

  


He visibly flinches, nose scrunching in disgust before he sees Tim’s face and then his own fills with something that looks way too much like guilt for Tim to handle. 

  


He’s still not sure what he came here for tonight but he knows he’s getting more than he bargained for. 

  


“Shit” He pulls the gun out and Tim coughs hard. Wiping blood and spit away, checking his tooth. 

  


“I’m fine” Tim lies, trying to wipe the tears away as well, even if it just gets blood on his cheeks. 

  


“No you aren’t” Jason sits back on his knees and regards him carefully, then shakes his head like he’s dealing with a toddler and leans in. “Here” he sighs. 

  


Two fingers under Tim’s chin he leans in and kisses him softly. His tongue rubs circles over his abused gums. Tim has to clutch Jason’s shoulders to steady himself from the heady rush of euphoria. 

  


“Fuck…” He whispers and Jason kisses deeper, sliding hands into his hair with aggravating amount of care.

  


It’s addictively good. 

  


“Strip” He mutters pushing Tim back like he’s mortified with his own good will.

  


Tim stands, glares and slowly peels off the suit. 

  


“Do they feed you over there?” Jason barks out a laugh and suddenly Tim feels painfully vulnerable as he skims his own gloved thumbs over the lean muscle and bone of his chest. 

  


Jason’s gaze softens just an inch. 

  


“You look better out the costume” He says. 

  


“Probably because I don’t remind you-” Tim answers before he can help himself. 

  


“Oh you just don’t know when to fucking shut up and take a compliment do you?” 

  


“Just lie back” Jason murmurs, all steamy and less angry. As though Tim’s some hot Gotham lay. It makes feel a mixture of belittled and weak kneed. 

  


He does as he’s told anyway. Eyes feeling a little droopy from Jason’s sudden heavy petting. 

  


A siren wails past and they both look up. Training and all before Jason looks down, an inch resentful and kisses him again. 

  


He doesn’t know when the best point would be to tell Jason that he hasn’t done this before. He doubts it’s now. Not when he’s gasping and writhing and Jason is muttering about how fucking beautiful he apparently looks. 

  


Intensive training and a sickening amount of protein shakes will do that to you. 

  


The more Jason goes on the less coherent Tim’s thoughts become, the more it melts into something unnamable, something odd. It’s comforting - he realises - he feels  _ safe _ as though he could let go of whatever it is inside himself that makes him feel so wound all the time. 

  


The bed is moth bitten and not at all like the four poster Tim puts his head on for two hours every night but Jason is warm and good with his tongue and his whole body seems to light up to the touch. 

  


He’s biting back his voice, moaning like some whore for Jason is a thing his tenuous grasp on himself won’t allow but as Jason lifts his leg up and drags his tongue down the inside of his thigh he ends up yelping. 

  


Jason’s chuckle puffs against his femur. 

  


“I wanna fuck you” Jason murmurs, candid and easy and Tim sits up his elbows at the lack of game. 

  


Bruce is cryptic at the best of times and TIm’s spent his childhood deciphering Gotham and here is Jason Todd looking him in the eye, shoulders bunched as he leans forward. The same who shot a man in his face last night, the same who launched Tim into this mess, the same who he  _ replaced  _ just asking him like that's all it takes. 

  


Because it is. 

  


“Okay” Tim says softly, nodding a little frantically. 

  


“Okay?” Jason quirks an eyebrow. “So fucking enthusiastic” 

  


Jason moves him like he’s something precious, even if under the surface there seems to be a desire, still, to fuck him up. It’s kind of like petting a dog you’ve been told mauls kids - you still like it cos it’s a cute fucking dog but you also like your hand. 

  


And besides, it’s only how it’s trained. Under it all he’s got a heart of gold, Tim thinks. 

  


Tim on the other hand? debatable. 

  


He crawls onto his knees and listens to the whistle of appreciation as Jason drags a calloused hand down his trembling side. 

  


Tim tries to flick a strand of hair out his eyes as he squeezes them shut and bites his lip. 

  


“Nervous, Drake?” Jason’s weight shift. 

  


“Shut up-” He chokes hard as Jason slides and  _ curls _ a finger inside him. He drops from his hands to his elbows as he shudders. 

  


Fuck okay, he shouldn’t underestimate Todd. He can practically feel his smirk burning the back of Tim’s neck. 

  


_ All your smarts, what’re they doing for you now?  _

  


Every thrust seems to kill brain cells until he’s clutching at the sheets and moaning helplessly. His still aching jaw falls open as he grinds his hips down into the sheets. 

He thinks he might be losing time, considers briefly just how dangerous sex could be under any other circumstances. The thoughts derail a little when the steady, sharp pleasure, ends as Jason pulls his fingers - oh, more than one, Tim hadn’t noticed - out. 

  


“It’s always the quiet ones” He hears Jason murmur. 

  


He wants to say something in response, maybe some kind of rebuttal but it all dies in his throat when Jason fucks into him. It’s overwhelming, enough to make him break out in a cold sweat, fingers gripping the worn wood headrest. 

  


“Jesus-” 

  


“Too much, baby bird?” Jason bites his ear lobe but doesn’t thrust into him, just holds him there trembling. 

  


“N-no” He grits out and lets Jason settle even if it knocks the breath out of him. 

  


He feels ripped out his own head for the first time in a long time. As though none of it matters, as though everything can be boiled down to him and Jason in this gritty downtown safehouse. 

  


He shudders as Jason moves and Jason moves  _ hard _ . He’s taking out his anger, his resentment and it feels good. Tim likes it, it’s oddly cleansing. He wants Jason to use him, in a way he’s using Jason. 

  


But this is safer and nicer then trying to kill one another everytime they cross paths, right? 

  


A particularly hard thrust seems to scream  _ yes.  _ As Tim finds himself debauched and obscenely drooling and panting onto Jason’s sheets as Jason holds his head down and his hips up. He couldn’t have imagined himself - though he  _ knows  _ this part of himself that he keeps locked up and secret - even like this yesterday and somehow he’s here. 

  


He’s moaning out Jason’s name like a prayer but he can’t help but enjoy it. He loves it. This unkempt, wild part of himself that Jason pulls out of him. 

  


Jason pulls him up by his hair and kisses a path up his neck.

  


“God” He gets against his chin. 

  


Tim smiles, eyes fluttering.

  


“You’re good, R. You’re really fucking good” 

  


Tim groans and thrusts back against him harder and harder until their thrusts are almost animalistic. They’re clawing at each-other, desperate and vicious but altogether less deadly. 

  


“I’m no fucking rebound, Drake” He gets snarled into his ear and god it’s true. Even if that was what this was about, a hard stomach and big biceps, a shared history and an unattainable crush; Jason has burned through him and to his core with some all those enticing things he should be appalled by. Between the murder and the sex, Jason a true bad boy. 

  


He’s so close, so fucking close that his head can’t focus on anything else, like his whole life has tunnelled into this one point. None of it mattering in a way that is so amazingly freeing he finds himself coming so hard Jason has to catch him. 

  


“Fuck you’re perfect” He hears through the blood rush and then warmth across his stomach, up to his chin. 

He wants to be angry that Jason just - pretty intentional - came up him but he can’t help but bask in it for a moment before he rolls over. 

  


“Gross” He lies. Running his fingers through it. 

  


Jason collapses beside him, chest heaving and grin sated. 

  


“Well” He pants. “That was unexpected” 

  


Tim smiles weakly in response. 

  


He’s not sure who leans in first but they’re kissing now. Gentle and full of tongue and probably disgusting to Tim under any other circumstances. It’s good and kind and wholly unsexual. Disarmingly domestic and completely unexpected and utterly  _ dangerous _ -

  


“I need to go” Tim manages, as he stumbles to his feet and grabbing handfuls of red and black. 

  


“Easy, easy boy wonder” Jason catches his arm and hauls him close in some forced form of post-coital cuddles. 

  


Tim scrunches his nose. 

  


“I shouldn’t be out” He says. 

  


“No you shouldn’t” Jason agrees. “But you  _ are  _ and now you suffer the consequences” 

  


Jason is enticingly warm. The air outside isn’t. His lids droop a little. 

  


“Let me go, Todd” 

  


“Jesus christ” Jason mumbles. “Did I fuck that stick futher up your ass?” 

  


Tim grounds his teeth. He thinks of gunshots and hot arterial spray across his cheek, off the pain in his shoulder, and the bruises over him. Thinks of Jason’s steady breath under his head, his soft heartbeat. It’s true cognitive dissonance. Trying to marry the murderer to the man stroking his hair. 

  


And yet. 

  


“I’m sure I’ll see you around” He drags himself up and Jason moves with him. It’s as much of a promise as Tim is willing to give. 

  


“Right” Jason mutters, eyes squeezing shut. 

  
  


He dresses in silence as Jason watches him, arms folded and head tilted against the wall. 

  


Tim feels like he’s watching himself as he opens up the window he first came through. Saying goodbye, or thank you? Or anything, feels redundant. This was as much for Jason as it was for him. 

  


“Hey” 

  


The cold air hits him, blows his hair as he heads into the night, proverbial wings spread. Jason holds the mask he peeled off him early in his right hand and waves it ever so softly. 

  


“Stay safe, baby-bird”

  


He sounds almost embarrassed. 

  


The mask is thrown and Tim catches it. 

  
  


“I’ll try” 

  
  
  
  
  
  
  


  
  
  
  



End file.
